


Communication

by jspringsteen



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:10:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Brad has learned anything in the Marine Corps, it's how to communicate.</p>
<p>A little Nate/Brad drabble because it's all about the Meaningful Looks with these two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communication

If Brad has learned anything in the Marine Corps, it's how to communicate.

On deployment, he lives his life in the present continuous. They all do. In a place where every wrong move, every second of hesitation, every fuck-up means potential disaster, he needs to be aware of where everyone's piece on the game board is at all times. Moving out.

Turning left.

Requesting permission.

Reloading.

Taking a dump.

Shutting up.

In combat, he becomes hyper-aware: like the fine hairs of a nettle, he can pick up the slightest vibration in the air--and his sting is swift and effective.

Communication is everything. Every action is a puzzle piece that has to fit neatly into the after action report. But then, communication takes different forms: Captain America's incoherent yelling constitutes, he supposes, a form of communication. An ineffective one, but still. Whereas with Lieutenant Fick, he needs only a word, a glance, to convey the crucial. He has only just begun to realise how much he's come to rely on their method of communication when he starts to pay attention to the crease in Nate's brow, the slightest quiver in the corner of his mouth that means he's biting back a smile, how his nostrils flare when he is thinking hard. Brad has become attuned to it, noting, more frequently than with others, the relaxed look of indulgence Nate wears when they speak.

* * *

"Ray, have you ever heard the expression: speaking is silver, silence is gold?" he'd asked his RTO in the beginning, way in the beginning when he still thought anything he said would be able to stop the stream of profanities that is Ray Person's entire persona. It's Ray who makes him realise that the only things worth saying should not be said out loud.

Realising.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Wanting.

Trombley's getting married--the fool, just a kid and he's talking about having one of his own. Brad spins out the story about his high school sweetheart--he does it for Ray, mostly, to get him to shut up, and damned if he doesn't get off a little on Ray's smile, a rare shard of untainted sympathy he cherishes like a diamond found in a dung heap. Ray doesn't need to say a word. It's all in his face.

Brad learns to read faces. He learns whom he can trust besides the usual suspects--Poke, Ray, Hasser. It's when they get into combat that he learns he can trust, _really_  trust, Lieutenant Fick--Fick who lingers at the window of his Humvee for a moment longer after their triumvirate with Wynn has been adjourned, who studies his face a little more attentively during briefings while Brad, more often than not, tries to keep his eyes from rolling towards the unforgiving blue desert sky. Fick, whose words--"Glad you're my lead vehicle"--are almost heavy enough to keep weighed down everything that is unsaid between them. Almost.

Brad tugs at the anchor line, willing it to dislodge--caution be damned, there is a time and a place but it's always _never_  and _not here_ \--when he tells Fick: "I have complete faith in your judgment, sir."

Fick looks at him, almost _not_  understanding, not willing to, but Brad holds his gaze, willing him to see, wanting him to know that he doesn't care if it's all gonna be over in a month or if it's gonna be a modern-day siege of Troy.

Fick looks away. His words--"I can be wrong"--break the spell. Brad feels them wrapping around his ankle, tugging him further down. He hears Ray in his head--"There's no such thing as _wrong_ , Brad, if watching _Real Housewives of Beverly Hills_ is wrong, then I don't wanna be right"--and starts to say, "Sir--", when Nate looks at him and he sees, with his Iceman-powers of minute observation, that tiniest shake of the head. Never and not here.

He puts his hand on Nate's shoulder.

Touching.

Wanting.

Waiting.

Wishing.

He sees Nate's pupils grow wider. He is acutely aware of the short distance between them. He says: "Sir, request permission for reconnaissance patrol," deliberately dropping his gaze to Nate's lips. He swears he can hear Ray laughing in the distance, going "Oh my God, Brad, you used that line? REALLY? Is that why you needed a new laptop--for all the Harlequin military-themed novels you've secretly been writing?", and it occurs to him that he should be worried how often he can hear Ray in his head like a vulgar Jiminy Cricket on speed.

Nate smirks, shaking his head: "I oughta boot you for trying a line like that on an officer." But he leans in close, and whispers, "Permission granted."

Brad lives his life in the present continuous. After all, every move, every second of hesitation, every fuck up could mean potential happiness.


End file.
